


Minutiae

by eirabach



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, Five Senses Challenge, Gen, Tumblr Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24476890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eirabach/pseuds/eirabach
Summary: Drabbles written for gumnut-logics Sensory Sundays challenge over on tumblr.
Relationships: Penelope Creighton-Ward/Gordon Tracy
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	1. See

It's been his nickname since his schooldays, a boys' taunt directed at the only two things his long absent father had bothered to leave in his wake, but the old cruelty has many other meanings now.

Nosy Parker sees, and Nosy Parker knows.

He's stuck his nose, literal and figurative, into the nooks and crannies of the underworld, into the workings of the global elite, into the secrets and the suspicions of good and bad and in-between and he's good at it, spying. He's good at hovering in the shadows, unseen and unnoticed, watching what others never think to see. They underestimate him. She underestimates him.

He watches her in the rear view mirror,the toss of her hair, the straightening of her shoulders, the brightening of her eyes when she answers the call and she's guessed correctly. He notes the yellow flowers on the dining table, the sodden wetsuit crumpled in the wash basket, the sand between the sheets. He sees the smiles that reach her eyes, the sunlit highlights and pink cheeks bright during a British March. He brings her tea at breakfast and she slips her compact beneath her pillow, a secret she ought to know better than to keep.

The boy makes no secret of it. He's all puppy dog eyes and heroic sacrifices that no one's asked him to make, and Parker sees that too, the danger of it. Because the lad will get himself killed, no doubt about that, and then -- 

Parker sees what comes next.

Parker dreams of it, sometimes. Of chasing her down corridors, dark and narrow and soaked in blood. Of the red on her teeth, on her hands, in her eyes, and the way her lip curls when he begs her to stop. He sees the glint of steel, and the certainty of vengeance, and when he pretends to hate the lad it's really this he hates -- the inevitability of it. The way the darkness always follows the sunset, no matter how bright the day has been.

They think it's a secret, the two of them. Perhaps it is, kept from unobservant brothers and absent fathers. Secret, even, from each other, the depth of it. The truth. Hidden beneath sarcasm and japes and the thrill of adventure, just a way to blow off steam, relax, lie.

But Parker watches her smile, watches her twist seashells between her fingers.

Parker knows.


	2. Touch

Neoprene is thick, a safe, solid layer between himself and the pressures of the deep, of his job, of the things that tend to come along with both, and Brains tries and Brains is good, but there’s only so much you can feel, through neoprene.

He gets used to it, that second skin. He wears it as easy as a callous, learns to comfort and hold and punch and greet as though it’s always been a part of him. It hasn’t, though sometimes he forgets. Sometimes he forgets, but that’s okay. She reminds him. 

It surprises him, at first, the way she touches him. That she touches him at all, honestly, but he’s hardly gonna stop her is he? Not when her fingers slip against the damp skin of his wrist, or her head settles warm and heavy against his shoulder. No, he’s never gonna complain that’s for damn sure.

It’s just -- well. The aristocracy aren’t exactly known for their public displays of affection. It comes as a surprise, that’s all, the way she reaches for him, hand on an elbow, hip pressed into his thigh. He marvels at the way her fingers slide between his as they sit on the couch, petite and pale and nothing, nothing like his own, and he wonders, sometimes, if this what it feels like to be skinned. Raw. Every nerve sharp and tingling at the simple pass of a thumb across his palm. It comes as a surprise, but he loves it, treasures it, stares daggers at any brother who cares to comment but, hey, Penny’s got that handled. 

_ Scott dear, I never took you for a prude. _

Scott -- Scott has no idea. 

He suspects they think it’s a joke, him and Penny. Penny and him. Lady Penelope and Gordon Tracy, and really who can blame them? Gordon’s good at jokes, after all. They smile when he asks for leave and let him go with a  _ be good, have fun, be  _ careful _.  _ But they don’t -- they don’t know, not really. They can’t know, because Penny -- Penny’s like the ocean. Penny’s like the ocean, but there’s nothing between them, no suit, no neoprene, no helmet or heroism or fear. Only Penny, skin like silk and smile like sin. Only Penny, her hair soft as sand running through his fingers, her mouth the tide drawing him deeper, further, until he’s lost, entirely lost to the endless blue and --

_ Can you feel that, darling? _

The waves crest, lightning and thunder through his bones, and yeah. Yeah.

Sometimes he forgets, in the moment. Blood on his suit and dirt in his mouth and muscles that strain and quiver just to -- just to keep going, sometimes. Sometimes his skin is blistered red and pink, stained and burnt and torn. Sometimes he wonders if he’ll ever remember again, the press of her mouth lost in the crush of failure, the gentle breeze of her laughter against his cheek anathema to the cries he carries in his head.

It’s okay though. 

She reminds him.


	3. Smell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is ridiculous

He  _ loves  _ it here. 

He loves the way he arises, magnificent, from the Great Puddle, flecks of foam scattering from his luscious blond locks. He loves the way the Snout grouses, patting at his hindlegs with his hairless paws, as he bestows his gift of sand and silt. He loves the warmth of the Great Ball on his back, the many, many unclaimed trees on his walkies, the hands willing to offer scritches, the constantly empty beds left just for him.

They know how to treat a good boy here, that’s for sure.

He kicks sand back at the Snout as he trots back up toward the shadows where She-Who-Feeds is waiting. Another quick toss of his silken locks and he scrabbles up her leg, his claw digging in where she’s forgotten to put her fur on and really, they couldn’t cope without him.

“Bertie! Down!”

He drops back to his haunches with a huff at the hated pack name, tilting his face up to offer She-Who-Feeds his best pretence at a  _ please _ ?

She isn’t looking at him. This won’t do.

He whines, puppyish in the way that she always falls for, but there’s something -- ah. He sniffs experimentally. There it is.

The sky above them smells of heat, of supper burned, and it makes him sneeze. It makes him think of the Little Pup, the one who always smells like sausages freshly grilled, of iron railings and She-Who-Feed’s fur before she removes it on those days when he has been left alone for too long. There’s a green cloud above them, green and moving swiftly, and the smell of flames follows it, tickling his nostrils until he’s burying his face in his paws and She-Who-Feeds takes pity and lifts him to his rightful height.

She watches the cloud, and he sniffs at her cheeks. She smells of the Great Puddle, of ear scritches and warmth and unmade beds, of softly familiar nuzzles and the sand that sticks to your paws. Nothing like herself, of course, but then she never does anymore, not when they’re here.

She doesn’t look at him, only at that cloud as it disappears, but that’s all right. 

There’s always room in the pack for a pup who knows their place.


	4. Taste

He tastes like the sea, and that almost goes without saying. All ocean air and ozone and sweet like a childhood ice cream held tight in sticky hands. He laughs when she says that. Laughs, and she tastes that too, his smile like sunshine on her tongue, a warmth that warms her from heart to belly and right down to toes that curl into the sand, and those days are the best days. Those are the days that fade gently into darkness and toward those pillowcase promises that slip all too easily from honeyed mouths.

There are days when the two of them linger in the glow of their own successes, complicit in each other's company as they slip into the shadows, all side eyes and sly smiles and lips caught between teeth. Days when his kisses have the tang of reused oxygen and she laughs, laughs and pushes at his cheek and,

_ Aw give a guy a  _ break _ , Pen. _

_ Do you deserve one, do you think? _

_ Uh -- _

Surprise tastes like static, the promise of lightning in the hitch of his breath, and though the skin beneath his suit is cool and brackish she loves to watch the gooseflesh spread only to chase it all away.

Then there are the other days.

Other days when he appears in a howl of VTOL, bedraggled and pale like a spectre at her door and you shouldn’t invite them in, should you? Not when they’re hungry the way he’s hungry, his eyes blown wide, his lips bloodless. But then Thunderbird Two is already lifting away and he holds out his arms and she's only human, isn't she? She’s only human, and so’s he. Only human, so she doesn’t ask. 

She doesn’t need to, not when failure tastes as bitterly familiar as a June downpour, all grit and ash and iron at the corner of his mouth, but he tells her regardless. He breathes nightmares against her temples, presses regrets into the hollow of her back.

_ I’m sorry. _

_ S’okay. _

_ Is it? _

(He doesn’t answer.

She licks her lips, and tastes salt.)


	5. Hear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I listened to Bob Dylan by Fall Out Boy way too much during the writing of this. It's thematic?

_When they say you and what army,_

_I guess they’re talking about you and me,_

_(No one ever thinks of you_

_as much as I do, not even you)_

_\---_

The rumour mill is a vicious thing. It takes the gentle, the unprepared, and it grinds them into pieces that blow as little more than dust in the wind -- victims of a world that takes pleasure in nothing more than the destruction of the perceived unworthy.

The British Press are consummate professionals at this sort of thing. There’s never been a young duchess or precocious pop star that they couldn’t use for their own ends then cast aside as it suits. There’s always been some scandal, some lover, some dress, some ill-advised publicity piece, some way to destroy what they themselves had built.

Penelope Creighton-Ward is an anomaly.

On paper it should -- _she_ should -- be easy. Highly educated, which is often enough to ensure a young woman a reputation as a fool, beautiful, which should ensure a steady supply of young men of thoroughly reproachable background, and constantly found in the company of a much older man of known ill-repute. The press pack salivate after her, watch her every move, wait for the inevitable slip or sneer or sexual misstep, and yet --

Penelope Creighton-Ward is _the_ anomaly.

Which is fortunate really.

You see, the press are convinced it’s Scott. They plaster poorly edited photographs of them across tablets the world over, and they do laugh about it, the two of them. The scale is all off and the inheritance tax would be a _nightmare_ , but they’ve never denied it.

It rather suits, you see. Because while the press think it’s Scott, so do _they_.

They stand either side of the remains of her fireplace like a pair of Great Aunt Sylvia’s china dogs, only they’re perhaps half as intelligent, and that at a generous estimate. The Chaos Crew are dressed in purple and pink and destruction and it’s almost ruder than if they’d clashed with her decor. Her own preferences warped against the soot-stains on the walls. Pretty and dangerous and _stupid_.

So stupid that they appear to think that there’s any way they’d have Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward lashed to a dining chair unless it were her _very specific preference._

(There are advantages to one’s partner having a broad education. 

Sailors are terribly good at knots.)

They thought it ought to be Scott, too. Scott the eldest, the tallest, the leader, with the face of an empire and the soul of a hero. It’s Scott they’ve contacted, Scott they’ve taunted. Which, quite honestly, is playing into her hands rather nicely.

You see, Scott’s a wonderful man. Scott’s a good man. Law-abiding, well-mannered. Just delightful, really. Scott would bring the GDF, have them arrested, continue with his day. Perhaps have a nice cup of Assam.

Scott isn’t coming.

She taps her thumb against the chair, repeating the message a couple of times just to be sure that Parker will have caught it, and smiles beatifically.

Havoc sneers, an ugly, smug sort of thing, and Penelope lets herself sigh, her smile dropping away defeated. As though a Creighton-Ward has ever been defeated. As though a Creighton-Ward has ever been such a poor host.

She hasn’t even offered them a cup of tea. Her governess would be _mortified_.

“Won’t you sit down?” she says, nodding at the chaise and taking careful note of the look Fuse throws at his sister. Suspicion. Her favourite.

Perhaps, he’s realised. After all, they are a little alike. They’re a little alike, and the ground begins to shake, the parlour wall crumbling as the earth beneath opens and --

Yellow, bright and fierce and _furious,_ and she sees the moment Fuse realises. The millisecond he understands where they’ve gone wrong. Because the Mole is churning up her antique Turkish carpet, and -- 

And Penelope _laughs_.

After all she, too, prefers a little chaos.


End file.
